


Affirmation

by testosterone_tea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Couch Cuddles, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Evil Mary, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Past Torture, Neck Kissing, PTSD Sherlock, Pining John, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock's scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 09:02:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2422982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/testosterone_tea/pseuds/testosterone_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John keeps seeing Sherlock everywhere, even though he knows Sherlock is dead. The situation goes from a bit not good to worse when a strange nurse shows up on the scene - is she really here to help, or are appearances deceiving? Who knows, this could all be in John's head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Affirmation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [die-a-black-death](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=die-a-black-death).



> Finally _finally_ done the next Giveaway fic for Tumblr user [die-a-black-death](http://die-a-black-death.tumblr.com/) Sorry it took so long, and I hope you enjoy what I did with your prompt!
> 
> The prompt was: anything involving John thinking Sherlock isn't real when he returns after TRF
> 
>  
> 
> **Mild content warning for past torture and PTSD**

"So, let me see here," the nurse said, looking at her clipboard with clinical blue eyes. "It says here that you've been seeing Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, I see him everywhere," John said.

He'd been better, John thought. He'd been a lot better until recently. John didn't even know how this most recent relapse had started. Maybe he'd seen a man in a long, dark coat with high cheekbones. Or maybe he just missed Sherlock more than usual today. What a feat – every time he thought he'd reached the utmost depths of longing, it turned out there were even further dark regions.

"About how often do you see him, then?" the nurse asked, tapping the pen against the edge of her clipboard.

"All the time," John said, looking down at his hands.

"Such as when?"

"When I wake up in the morning," John said. "And when I go to sleep."

Every waking moment, there he was. Sherlock flitted past the corner of his eye, lingered on the edge of his view, waited at John's shoulder just out of view. It had started off slowly, seeing a flicker of a shadow in reflective surfaces. He'd thought nothing of it. John, while not as logical as Sherlock, thought he was firmly rooted in reality. No ghosts, no aliens, no conspiracy theories. Or, at least not ones that were too ridiculous to contemplate Mycroft carrying out.

So when confronted with Sherlock's reoccuring apparition, it only stood to reason that what he was seeing was in his head.

Hence why he was speaking to this nurse at all. John didn't specialize in brain medicine, but it was there he put his faith for a cure.

"All the time," John finished heavily.

The main problem with seeing Sherlock was that John truly didn't mind Sherlock's presence, however much he wasn't real. It was that which caused John to seek medical help in the first place. Being comfortable with seeing your dead best friend in your head spoke of deeper problems.

"Is it constant?"

"Yes," John said, still staring at his knuckles.

"Can you see him now?"

John swallowed and tried not to look over his shoulder.

"Yes," John said.

OOooOO

Now, instead of just Sherlock following him around, he also had Mary.

The next day, she appeared at his door and said she was here to help him. She had her blonde hair neatly pinned up and was carrying a big, red handbag. John, in his worn-out jeans and threadbare jumper, couldn't even think of inviting her up to his even drearier flat. So he went out with her to a nearby coffee shop.

"What can you tell me about Sherlock Holmes?" she asked as they settled into a booth in the corner.

At first, there was too much to think about. How could he even begin to summarize the presence of Sherlock? And even though Sherlock was there in the shop, shadow backlit by the sunlight coming in the window, John couldn't fully encompass what Sherlock meant to him, there couldn't be words for something like that.

"He's..." John said, casting about for a word.

Mary leaned forward, eyes gleaming strangely in the dim light.

"He's different," John said. "He's a genius. But it's not just that he's a genius, he has this way about him... he likes to think he's unfeeling. But he's not."

"No?"

"Not at all," John said, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Did he care for you a great deal, then?" Mary said, slowly stirring her coffee.

John took a deep breath and let it out again. "No, I don't think so."

Sherlock's shadow receded a little, and Mary leaned forward even further. "No?"

"If he cared at all..." John said carefully. "Then why did he leave?"

Mary smiled at him. "You're right, John. So if that's the case, and you've admitted this to yourself, then why do you keep seeing him?"

"I don't know," John said, shaking his head and breathing again shakily. "It must be..."

"What?"

"Well, Sherlock is dead," John said dully. "It doesn't matter if he cared for me or not in life. And he's appearing in _my_ head. He's not real. So it must be because I cared for him."

"You did?"

"More than anything," John said, sighing. "It's a good thing I don't know you well, or I never would have been able to say it."

"More than your miltary service in Afghanistan?" Mary asked. "More than London? More than your sister?"

"More than breathing."

_But breathing is boring, isn't it?_

John was trying to convince himself to keep doing it, to keep drawing air into his lungs, sometimes counting the seconds in between breaths. He'd count them, and then sometimes he'd forget he was counting, and those were the times he could see Sherlock. It was getting easier now, that Sherlock was there, even in his head.

He wasn't sure what would happen if Sherlock disappeared again.

Why was he here?

Sitting in this dull coffee shop that served watery coffee and stale biscuits with a woman who was trying to convince him that the man in his head didn't exist. And the man in his head was one of the only things reminding him to keep going.

It was because it was normal.

It was normal not to want a dead man living just inside your periphery. John shouldn't want him there any more than he'd want any person he knew who'd died. And he knew a damn lot of people who'd died by this point.

But he did. He craved Sherlock's presence like air. And that wasn't normal.

What to do? It was quite the dilemma. What did one do when the only thing keeping them holding onto the last thread of reality was also a sign of mental health problems?

Mary could help him. Or at least he hoped that she could, because he had no idea where to go from here. Sherlock had helped cure the last ailment that was all in his head, and Sherlock was dead.

Mary smiled, her red mouth bright against her pale skin and hair.

"Don't worry, John. We'll sort this out, won't we?" Mary said.

"Yes," John said, and closed his eyes.

OOooOO

Mary went a lot of places with him now.

He didn't do much these days. He went to a clinic three days a week and prescribed boring people medicine. Maybe they were only boring because Sherlock wasn't here to tell him all about them. John couldn't tell. To him, the calluses on someone's fingers hardly told him anything except that they repeated some sort of motion often. He wouldn't be able to tell you what.

He took walks in the park. Went and bought milk from the Tesco down the street. No one but Mary ever called round anymore, not since Sherlock had died. To be honest, John wasn't sure seeing their faces would help, not when the only reason he knew them was because of Sherlock.

Even Mary only knew him because his best friend had tossed himself off a building.

"Can you see him today?" Mary always asked.

"Yes," John always replied tiredly.

"Point him out to me," Mary instructed.

It's how he would start off their every conversation, by pointing out where Sherlock wasn't. Mary would look at the space his image occupied and stare at it for a while.

It was a bit strange. Mary often looked as if one day she expected Sherlock to really be standing there, where John pointed. It couldn't be helping, but John couldn't help doing it anyway. If felt validating, to tell someone where Sherlock was.

Sometimes, Mary would even stay over at his dreary little flat, sleeping on the sofa.

John always tried to persuade her to at least let him take the sofa, but she insisted. When he protested, she told him that he needed to start letting people back in, whatever that meant. It sounded like she knew, so he let her.

"Is he here today?" Mary would ask in the morning.

One night, when John couldn't sleep, he left his room for a glass of water. Mary was on her mobile, talking in a whisper that John could barely hear.

"No, no he's not here. Yes, I know you think I could be doing something actually useful instead of waiting around for it to happen. I'm only here because you told me that the network was breaking up. It was your info, are you telling me it was wrong?"

Mary paused, and John held his breath.

"No, I know you thought that there was a lead. But all that's here are ghosts. Well how about instead of whining at me, you figure out what's happening?"

John didn't know anyone who spoke that way except for people in spy movies. Mary didn't seem like the over-dramatic type, she was very steady and calm.

His life of state secrets and government espionage had ended when Sherlock died. There was no reason to think she was up to something for a little phone conversation. Walk the world once with Sherlock Holmes and suddenly everyone was a suspect, was that it?

John went back to his room and fell back asleep.

When he woke up in the morning, Mary asked, "Is he here today?"

"Yes."

OOooOO

Mary often got calls like that in the middle of the night.

Sometimes, John would deliberately stay up and listen to her talk to them. She never said much, just a few words, most of the time. They seemed to think that her being in London was a waste of time for some reason, but she refused to leave. In the very least, even if it was just something silly, it was more interesting than John's life.

John checked her phone once while she was in the bathroom.

The only contact in there was someone named "Seb." No other info. John's number wasn't in her contacts list, but in the text message section, there was his number with messages under it. His number looked odd there, at the top of the screen, unassigned.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Was he making these mysteries up in his head, like Sherlock's ghost? Was it simply wishful thinking on his part, and he just wanted adventure and cases again? There was no way of knowing. John considered just confessing the whole of it to Mary and then waiting for her to tell him how mad he sounded. 

"You know, when we first started talking, Sherlock was just at the edge of your vision when you pointed him out to me," Mary said one day, while they were sitting in the same cafe with the watery coffee.

"Yes?" John asked.

"Well, he's not there anymore, is he?" Mary said matter-of-factly. "He's migrated further into your field of vision."

John hadn't noticed, but yes, now that Mary mentioned it, Sherlock _was_ further into his field of vision, and always leaning up against something, smirking playfully. The look that said, "We both know what's going on here, don't we John," when John had never really known at all what Sherlock's smirk meant.

"Why would he do that?" John asked, watching Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled and raised a single finger to his lips.

_Shhh._

John frowned slightly. What was he trying to tell himself?

"I don't know," Mary said. "Do you?"

John shook his head, still frowning but not understanding. Sherlock smiled, winked, and then disappeared. John blinked.

He almost told Mary that Sherlock had gone somewhere. She'd want to know that, right? Perhaps that was why he shouldn't tell her.

"I should go home," John said, without really knowing why.

"Okay," Mary said. "I'll walk you home."

Something was happening. John surrepticiously looked around, scanning the area for Sherlock, but he'd disappeared completely. That wasn't like him – he had been there for months.

Something was going on, and the worst thing was that it was all just happening in his head, and John lacked the expertise to interpret what it was.

Mary slept on the couch, as usual. John felt edgy, almost like he was anticipating something, he just didn't know what. Sherlock still wasn't there, and the longer he was gone, the more anxious John got.

The strange thing was, Mary was anxious, too. John could hear her, pacing away just a room over.

He couldn't sleep anyway. John crept over to the door, careful not to make his floor creak, and pushed it open slighly. Mary was stalking back and forth, her movements erratic. She stopped suddenly and raised her mobile to her ear, breathing hard.

"Pick up, dammit," she snarled into the speaker.

John had never seen her act like that.

The mobile rung out, not even going to voicemail. Mary threw the mobile down on the couch and took a deep breath, muttering to herself.

"He didn't check in," she said. "Why didn't he check in?"

And then she was stomping in the direction of his room. John scrambled over to his bed and threw himself down on it just as her knock pushed the door open.

"John?" she said, and John started at the strange, scared quality of her voice.

"Yes, Mary?" he asked.

"I have to go, I'll be back in the morning. Something's come up."

"What's wrong?" John asked, curious.

"A friend of mine... is missing," she said. "Sherlock... do you see Sherlock right now, John?"

John took a deep breath and lied, "Yes."

OOooOO

Mary left, and John sat on his couch, drinking tea. He still couldn't sleep, so he turned the telly on. There wasn't much on, but it was better than thinking about missing Sherlock.

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, he was jerking awake, and Sherlock was back, leaning in the corner next to the window. He was looking out over London, half his face hidden by the shadows of John's dim flat.

"You're back," John said. "I didn't know if you were coming back. Where did you go?"

"Far away," Sherlock said, and John's breath caught.

He sounded exactly how John remembered. But talking... talking was new. Was this some other strange thing his brain had come up with? Was he talking to himself now, in words?

"Why did you go?" John asked, realizing he sounded slightly plaintive.

"I had to," Sherlock said, turning slightly. "I didn't want to, believe me. If there had been another way to do it... but there wasn't."

John nodded.

Now that Sherlock was back, John was starting to actually feel sleepy. It was almost three in the morning, and he'd been worried. Now that Sherlock was back, he felt as if he could rest easy. He could figure out what the talking meant in the morning.

"Will you be here when I wake up?" he asked, lying back down on the couch and settling in.

"Yes."

OOooOO

John woke up to the sound of someone coming in the door of his flat. Mary had the key, so it was likely her, coming back.

John looked around, and there was Sherlock in the kitchen, frozen in place as Mary came in.

He expected Mary to ask him where Sherlock was today, but Mary froze as well. Before John could even say anything, she reached back and pulled a handgun out of the back of her jeans and levelled it at Sherlock, eyes cold.

John didn't even think.

He stepped over, disarmed her, and shoved her back as hard as he could.

He was still trying to process this, when she regained her balance and immediately attacked him. Again, John reacted automatically, blocking her attacks, although he was reluctant to strike her.

"Mary –" he tried to say, to reason with her.

"Where is he!" she screamed. "He knew someone was tracking us down. It was you, wasn't it!"

John frowned, "I didn't track anyone down."

Mary snorted. "Not you, you nutter. Him!"

"And that's quite enough of that."

Mary's eyes went over his shoulder, and she stopped attacking John, slowly raising her hands, eyes hard and fastened on a point behind him. John stepped back from her and then turned to look behind him.

Sherlock was standing there with the gun Mary had dropped pointing straight at her head.

John blinked, and then blinked again. No matter how much he thought about it, Sherlock in his head could not possibly be pointing a gun at Mary.

"How...?" he asked.

"John!" Sherlock said urgently. "Step back from her! She's an internationally wanted assassin!"

"What? No, she's a nurse," John protested.

"I'm not a nurse, John," Mary snapped. "God, how could you even believe that. I literally just showed up on your doorstep one day."

"But you were at the office –"

"She stole that nurse's identity, John," Sherlock said. "Just to get close to you."

"And of course, Sherlock here has all the answers," Mary hissed, eyes filled with rage. "What did you do to Seb?"

"Oh, I don't know. I imagine he was returned to America. Don't worry, you will be reunited shortly, I'm certain."

"You're talking to him," he said to Mary, dazed.

Mary didn't answer, just sullenly glared at Sherlock, who didn't lower the gun.

"We'll talk about this after she's dealt with, John," Sherlock said.

"You're really here," John said, suddenly feeling light-headed. "You're alive."

"Yes."

OOooOO

Several people in suits came to collect Mary, and John watched her go. She didn't even look back as she was lead away in handcuffs.

They left John alone with a man, who up until this morning had been nothing more than a vision inside his head.

"John –"

"Shut up," John said, and Sherlock did as he was told for once, making John wonder if he was still imagining things.

John went closer, slowly approaching him. In his head, Sherlock had always stayed about the same distance away. John had never tried to get closer when it was just his imagination. As he got closer, he could see that he should have realized that this Sherlock was real. His hair was a bit longer, more ragged, and his face was rough with stubble and something too intangible to see. He was thin as a whip underneath his Belstaff.

And then it hit him, Sherlock's scent, remembered even from two years ago.

Sherlock was really here in front of him.

He lunged forward, not even sure if he was going to embrace Sherlock or strangle him. He got his hands around Sherlock's collar, and he thought maybe he was going for the second option. And then he pulled on the fabric and yanked Sherlock's head down.

Sherlock made a surprised noise in the back of his throat as John's mouth found his. John pushed Sherlock back until he hit the wall, fingers clenched so hard in the fabric he felt his fingers cracking. Sherlock froze against John, and John drew back in shock.

"I – " John said, meaning to let go of Sherlock and step away.

Sherlock's hand shot out and grasped the front of John's jumper, stopping his retreat. Sherlock was shaking, little shivers running up his arms.

"John..." he said, voice cracking.

And John couldn't hold himself back. He pulled Sherlock's trembling form against him, and Sherlock crumbled. John gathered him up in his arms and held onto Sherlock as hard as he could.

"Will you... will you kiss me again?" Sherlock asked softly, against his neck.

John's fingers found their way into Sherlock's hair and tilted his head. John kissed Sherlock's quivering lips, and the arches of his cheekbones, and the tip of his nose. He kissed the curve of Sherlock's elegant brow and his closed eyelids. As John's lips skated across one pale cheek, he tasted salt, and he realized that Sherlock was crying.

And as his lips found Sherlock's again, the taste of tears lingering on his tongue, he realized that he was crying, too.

Eventually, Sherlock pulled away, wiping his eyes and sniffing.

"I didn't know if I would ever return," Sherlock said. "And if I did, I didn't know if you would ever forgive me. Do you forgive me, John?"

"You're alive," John said. "You gave me my miracle."

"You know I never really died," Sherlock said. "It wasn't really a miracle, it was carefully planned out–"

"Sherlock, shut up," John said fondly, and kissed him again. "You're amazing, you know that?"

Sherlock breathed in against John, and he felt Sherlock smile against his mouth.

"Yes."

OOooOO

It wasn't exactly perfect.

Sherlock still had to explain a lot of things, and he was trying to avoid certain areas of the conversation that he kept telling John "weren't interesting." He was staying on the couch – a different couch than the one that Mary had stayed on. That couch, John had immediately sold, and he was sorely tempted to burn the damned thing. Sometimes, at night, Sherlock would fall asleep and wake up screaming.

John knew the signs of PTSD better than anyone.

Sherlock wasn't telling him a lot of what had gone on, but John could see the marks of war on Sherlock that scarred any returning veteran. He'd fought a lot of battles in his absence, and the wounds were still too raw to talk about. John was waiting. Sherlock would tell him what had happened eventually.

John was still raw, too.

John couldn't see the apparition of Sherlock anymore. That had never returned after it had disappeared that night, as it turned out. John wondered where it had gone, and why it had come in the first place. He still wasn't sure he didn't need more therapy, although he no longer felt the struggle to continue as he once did. Sherlock was back.

Not to say that John wasn't still angry about the deception.

But no anger could drown out the overwhelming ache of relief that John felt when he remembered at odd times during the day that Sherlock was alive.

John woke up in the night, worried.

He always woke up worried, because it was always to the thought that he'd dreamed it all, and that Sherlock was still dead. He couldn't forget how Sherlock had appeared in his head, and how far removed from reality he'd been. He had to go and find Sherlock.

He padded out of his room in bare feet, pushing the door open.

Sherlock wasn't asleep. He was in his thinking pose, but even John could tell that he wasn't in his Mind Palace.

"Sherlock," he said quietly.

Sherlock looked over, eyes shifting from anxious to something soft in the space of a moment.

"John," Sherlock said, moving over so that John could sit on the couch.

John revelled in the warm space that Sherlock had occupied, knowing that Sherlock had to be real, leaving behind traces of his tangible presence. Sherlock glanced at him shyly out of the corner of his eye, and John smiled.

"Come here," he said gently.

Sherlock sighed and leaned into him. John turned Sherlock's face towards him to meet his eager and receptive mouth.

This was new. John wasn't sure what to make of it yet, but it was good. He enjoyed kissing Sherlock, and holding him, warm and pliant, in his arms. It was the best way for John to know for certain he wasn't dreaming, because this was an entirely new experience for him. He could never have imagined this, Sherlock's breathy little sighs against John's lips, or the way he snuggled close. Before, John had never thought Sherlock could be like this, had thought him too distant, removed from emotion.

Sherlock had come back a little more broken, but a little more human. He needed John, and John needed him just as much. Possibly not the healthiest of relationships, with such a co-dependent nature, but John didn't care about that.

He hadn't been able to say it yet, but he marked up Sherlock with his adoration, pressing fervent kisses to every part of Sherlock he could reach. Sherlock always reacted to John bestowing him with these little gifts of affection with surprised pleasure, as if he couldn't believe anyone could feel this way about him.

John felt himself relaxing into Sherlock's embrace, tucking themselves together on the couch. Sherlock buried his nose in the crook of John's neck.

"Safe," Sherlock murmured.

"Safe, yes. You're safe here," John said, feeling a little pang inside him at the thought of Sherlock trying to sleep, somewhere far away, afraid and alone.

They lay there entwined for a little while, and just as John was wondering if he should make them some tea, Sherlock stirred.

"John?" Sherlock asked, voice tentative.

"Hm?" John hummed.

"Will you make love to me?" Sherlock said, and his cheeks pinked as John turned to look at him full-on.

"You want me to?" John asked hesitantly. "I wasn't sure you... did that. Have you... before?"

"Please, John, I've had _sex_ ," Sherlock said, although his cheeks flushed darker. "I've never... I've never made love to anyone though."

"So you acknowledge there's a difference," John said gently.

"Of course there's a difference," Sherlock said. "You can't make love to just anyone."

"It is different," John said, musingly. "It's more... it's just more. Everything."

Sherlock nodded. "That's why. It's not about sex, you know. That I can do without, have done without since I discovered it wasn't much use if I didn't care about who I was with. Orgasms are all very well and good, but I've been waiting... for a very long time... for someone to make love to."

"And why now?" John asked curiously.

"Because you haven't said anything, but I know," Sherlock said. "You've been showering me with it in little gestures, every day. And I want to feel it, all over, inside me, everywhere. So please, I'll ask you again, John: will you make love to me?"

"Yes."

OOooOO

Sherlock let John lead him to his room by the hand, looking terribly nervous. John wondered if he felt Sherlock's pulse, would it would be pounding? He squeezed Sherlock's finger's lightly, and Sherlock looked up, eyes wide, pupils blown huge.

"We don't have to –" John started gently, not wanting to alarm him.

"I want to," Sherlock said, and his fingers went to his shirt buttons.

"Here, love, let me," John said, hands reaching up.

Sherlock watched as John started patiently unbuttoning his shirt, and John could feel his heart now, beating hard underneath his hand.

"Shh, love, it's alright," John said, leaning up on his toes and kissing Sherlock gently on the mouth.

Sherlock sighed and took a shuddering breath, "I know, I just..."

John kissed up his jaw and licked at the lobe of Sherlock's ear. Sherlock gasped and hung onto the front of John's jumper. John smiled as he noticed Sherlock's legs trembling and backed him up against the bed. He tumbled down easily, shirt half-unbuttoned and chest already heaving. John clambered onto the bed after him, straddling his narrow hips.

"Let me take care of you," John murmured, hands sliding underneath his shirt.

"Oh," Sherlock managed to say, leaning back on the bed, gasping.

John kissed the long curve of his neck and down the elegant wing of one collarbone. Sherlock's hands came up to grasp at John's shoulders as John's mouth travelled wetly down the center of his chest. He could feel Sherlock's heart beating against his lips, and he smiled.

"Relax, sweetheart," he murmured. "It's okay."

Sherlock whimpered, and John sucked little marks into his skin along his stomach as he finished unbuttoning his shirt. He ran his hands up along Sherlock's ribs and Sherlock gasped.

"J-John, wait –"

John's hand, traveling up Sherlock's back, suddenly came into contact with a rough patch of skin, and he stopped in confusion. Had Sherlock gone and gotten himself hurt recently? Sherlock looked up at him fearfully, grabbing the edges of his shirt and pulling it back around him, scooting back.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked away, avoiding John's eyes. 

"Sherlock, it's okay, I'm not going to hurt you," John said gently. "Did you get hurt?"

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and nodded jerkily.

"Will you let me see?" John asked.

Shoulders shaking, and eyes still scrunched shut, he let the shirt fall away, exposing his back for John's eyes.

"Oh, God, Sherlock –" John said, moving forward slowly and pulling Sherlock into his arms.

He ran his hands down Sherlock's back slowly, gently touching the terrible scarring all over the length of Sherlock's back. He didn't have to ask where they'd come from. He'd seen many things in the army during wartime, and he wasn't unfamiliar with the aftermath of torture.

No wonder Sherlock hadn't wanted to talk about it.

John pressed his mouth to the back of Sherlock's neck and stroked softly over his back.

"Can you still love me when I look like this?" Sherlock whispered.

"Sherlock –" John pulled him closer. "Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?"

"It's horrible," Sherlock said against his shoulder. "I've looked at them in the mirror. I didn't get to a doctor in time to minimize the scarring."

"Beautiful," John whispered against his hair. "You're beautiful."

Sherlock looked at him with anguished eyes, and John dropped a kiss on his perfect mouth and said, "Gorgeous. Magnificent."

He stroked softly over Sherlock's back, and although the wounds were healed now, he kept his hands gentle. He tipped Sherlock over onto the bed and then rolled him onto his stomach. Sherlock looked at him questioningly over his shoulder.

"Beautiful," John said again. "So lovely."

He kissed lines of adoration over Sherlock's ravaged back. He lapped at a shoulderblade and followed the knobs of his spine with his mouth. Sherlock hid his face in his arms, but John could hear him gasping with every touch.

"Spread your legs for me, will you, love?" John whispered, running a hand up the inside of Sherlock's thigh, stroking the soft skin on the back of his legs.

Sherlock whined and spread his knees, pert bum up in front of him. John caressed the supple flesh beneath his hands and slowly spread his cheeks apart to find Sherlock's rosy little entrance peeking up at him.

"Is this alright?" John asked, pressing his dry thumb against his entrance.

"Y-yes..." Sherlock stuttered, tilting his hips up.

"That's a love," John praised him. "If this hurts at all, please tell me."

John didn't even know why he had lube in his drawer, since he hadn't felt much like having a good wank lately, but he was thanking his lucky stars now. He slicked up two fingers and rubbed the lube around until it was warm. He pressed one finger gently to Sherlock's entrance and rubbed in little circles, increasing the pressure slowly.

"Let me open you up, love," John murmured, and Sherlock whimpered and rolled his hips.

It was still so tight, and John wondered how long it had been for Sherlock. He was patient, working Sherlock open a little at a time. He could see the tiny little shivers running down Sherlock's spine and leaned down to kiss the small of his back.

"Shhh, you're alright," John said, finally starting on a second finger.

By the time he'd managed to work up to three, Sherlock was panting and covered in sweat, and John was aching with desire. Sherlock's soft inner walls clutched at his fingers even as he stretched him open.

"Can I do it yet?" John asked, stroking his free hand down Sherlock's warm back.

"Please, I've been waiting for ages," Sherlock said, voice breathy.

John got a condom on and slicked himself up, hissing at the coolness of the lube. He straddled Sherlock's legs and then rolled his hips forward, embedding himself in Sherlock inch by inch. Sherlock gasped and pushed back as best he could, although his position didn't have much leverage. John spread himself over Sherlock's back like a blanket, pressing his forehead to the back of Sherlock's neck.

"John..." Sherlock said quietly.

"I've got you," John said, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and kissing his shoulder.

Sherlock found his hand and entwined their fingers. John pressed another kiss to Sherlock's back and then thrust gently forward. Sherlock's breath hitched and John worked up a steady rhythm, not urgent or intense. Gentle.

"You don't have to hold back," Sherlock said, voice wrecked.

"I know, I just want to," John said, and Sherlock panted as John changed the angle slightly.

"John – " Sherlock keened underneath him. "This – this is –"

"Yes," John said, and tightened his hold around Sherlock's fingers.

"I want –" Sherlock gulped and tried again. "I want to see your face, John."

"As you wish," John said.

He helped Sherlock roll onto his back, and John could feel him trembling. Repositioning himself, John moved Sherlock's legs around his waist and pushed back in slowly. Sherlock made a breathy moaning sound as John pinned him in place again.

And then, Sherlock finally opened his eyes and met John's.

"I love you," John said, and pushed his hips up and in.

Sherlock cried out, and his eyes went languid and half-lidded with pleasure. He made sure to keep them open though, fastened to John's as John moved inside him.

"Love – love you," Sherlock gasped out, words jarring together as John picked up his pace.

"I know," John whispered, and leaned down to kiss him messily.

"John –!" Sherlock said warningly, voice pitched upward.

"I've got you, love," John said.

Sherlock shuddered hard underneath him, and John held onto him as he shook apart, seeming to come apart at the seams. As Sherlock spasmed around him, John tipped over the edge as well, gasping and hanging on to Sherlock's hand desperately.

Trembling, he collapsed next to Sherlock, breathing hard.

Sherlock whined and tried to move closer. John groggily searched out Sherlock's warmth with one arm, and finding it, gathered it towards him.

Eventually, the trembling died down enough, and the warmth came down enough that John searched out his blankets and pulled them over him and Sherlock. Sherlock sighed, turning in John's arms so that John's front pressed up along his spine.

"Never thought you would be the little spoon," John said with a soft laugh.

"I feel like you're protecting me," Sherlock said sleepily.

"I am," John said, and got an arm around his chest, pulling him back against his chest.

"John?" Sherlock asked, just before they both drifted off to sleep.

"Hm?"

"Can we move back to Baker Street now?"

"Yes."

OOooOO

They moved back to Baker Street one autumn day, when the weather was nice. The winter rain hadn't started yet, but Sherlock predicted that the next weekend would be rain, and then there wouldn't be a dry day right through until spring.

Sherlock didn't even need to move anything, all of his stuff was still at Baker Street.

John's belongings were still just as meagre as when he'd first moved in with Sherlock, all those years ago. It was mostly a matter of airing out rooms and dusting than anything else, unearthing the old layers of their lives from times past.

"The Cluedo board is still stuck to the wall," John laughed.

"My lab equipment is still all intact," Sherlock said. 

"I'd better not find three-year old body parts in the fridge," John scolded, opening the fridge, just to be certain it was empty.

Mrs. Hudson came up with a tray of biscuits and some tea, saying, "Just this once, dears, because I'm so pleased you're home. I'm not your housekeeper, you know."

It was almost like new.

John was staying in Sherlock's room now. Sherlock said that if he wanted, John could keep his old room, just in case he ever got annoyed at Sherlock and needed space. Said it was bound to happen, as Sherlock still did many things that made John cross.

Ever since John had started staying in Sherlock's bed, neither of them had had any nightmares. And if John ever woke up anxious, Sherlock was right there in his arms, safe and very much not just an image inside his head. Perhaps the reason for it was a bit not good, but John didn't think it mattered in the long run.

John joined Sherlock on the couch where he was taking a break from going through his lab equipment, drinking some tea from the tray Mrs. Hudson had brought up.

"Promise I can keep you forever?" John asked as Sherlock leaned against his shoulder.

"Yes."

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](http://testosterone-tea.tumblr.com/)
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